


Stiff and Pissed and Lost and Loose

by charlotteicewolf77



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Romance, series 5 AU, there's a happy ending i promise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-15
Updated: 2015-04-15
Packaged: 2018-03-23 02:58:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3751906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charlotteicewolf77/pseuds/charlotteicewolf77
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Title from Cardinal Song by The National</p><p>See, the really ironic thing about all of this, the real kick in the teeth, is that Jimmy is in love with Thomas. And to top it all off he’s a poofter; so lavender that Oscar Wilde would be proud. It isn’t just Thomas, or men and women, it’s always been men. He won’t admit it, ever, but it is what it is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stiff and Pissed and Lost and Loose

**Author's Note:**

> 16.5 pages, 5 days and a lot of caffeine and I've finally done! :) Ended up twice as long as I thought it would but hey-ho.  
> I think the italics are working :s
> 
> Also: 'faggot' is not historically accurate, but I couldn't find another word from that time that really seemed to fit.

See, the really ironic thing about all of this, the real kick in the teeth, is that Jimmy is in love with Thomas. And to top it all off he’s a poofter; so lavender that Oscar Wilde would be proud. It isn’t just Thomas, or men and women, it’s always been men. He won’t admit it, ever, but it is what it is.

 

~0~

 

A door has never seemed so accusing before, but this is the door to Thomas’ room, and behind the door is the man who just mere hours ago saved Jimmy from a beating and then kept quiet about it. It’s… sort of amazing, really. Because when he first saw Thomas Barrow he decided there was no way. No way that he was one of _those_ men, like _Jimmy_. An invert, a poofter, a faggot. A man who looked for lines instead of curves and cologne instead of perfume. Who looked at men when he was meant to be looking at women and who got off to dirty postcards hidden far behind his socks in place of a lady from a film. There was, Jimmy Kent decided, far more chance of Lady Sybil coming back from the dead than Thomas Barrow being one of _those_ types.

He never had had much look with bets.

Jimmy doesn’t understand Mr Barrow, because he came into his room and kissed him without permission. That took a lot of nerve, even though it was as wrong as a nine shilling note it took a lot of courage. A man like that, with courage. They were sick cowards who avoided anything dangerous whilst trying to pretend to be proper men. Thomas isn’t a coward, but he _is_ a faggot. Except he isn’t a faggot in the way Jimmy is, because he is a _man_.  He smokes and drinks and reads the paper and doesn’t bother about his appearance as much as a lavender man would. He isn’t delicate or gentle or fragile. He’s just a man… who happens to like men.

But the thing that really blows Jimmy’s mind and knocks him for six is that Thomas isn’t ashamed. He heard him telling Mr Carson, “I’m not foul”. He wonders where Thomas got that idea, where he ever even had an inkling of that though because people like them are so obviously foul. The _Bible_ says so.

Jimmy Kent is a coward, but he tries to find consolation and stability in the fact that he doesn’t lie to himself like Thomas does, that that puts them on equal footing.

But raging faggot or not, he still opens the door, because Mr Barrow- _Thomas_ \- still took a beating for him. Jimmy just needs to work out why.

 

~0~

 

Habit dictates that the two of them are the last to go to bed and Jimmy isn’t brave enough to break it. The deck of cards dully reflect the candlelight and if he wasn’t trying to pretend he was a proper man he would think Thomas looks beautiful and marvellous, that smoking suits him and admire how crisp the lines of him are, even after a long day. But Jimmy pretends now, especially around Thomas because accidentally letting slip what he really is would be disastrous. Because Thomas is (Jimmy is still guiltily surprised) _nice_. They’ve built up a good friendship and Thomas is a good friend. Better than Jimmy.

And in another life, of course, if things were different, or they were, Jimmy thinks it wouldn’t be so bad measuring his days in grey eyes and secret smiles. But it’s this life, and admitting just what he is now would feel almost like he was betraying Thomas, like it would be met with disappointment which Jimmy avoids at all costs. Anger is easy; disappointment makes you feel guilty and ashamed. Jimmy is already ashamed enough.

 

They don’t talk about _it_ , the one unspoken rule is they don’t talk about what happened a year and a half ago or anything to do with _it_. But Jimmy always will get into trouble eventually. “Would you change it?” he asks the elder man, not looking up from the cards in his hand. “Being like _that_?”

To his credit, Thomas doesn’t look up from his cards either so the awkwardness stays just the right side of tangible. “No,” he replies. “Probably not.”

They go to bed shortly after that.

 

~0~

 

Later, it occurs to Jimmy that his friend might have been lying. Because Jimmy would change this in a heartbeat, would jump at the chance of being _normal_. Of lusting after women and having a proper family one day with a wife and a cottage and children who he could come home to after a hard day’s work and go on holiday to the seaside with him. Except he doesn’t think Thomas would lie. Not to him. Hide things from him, certainly, but not lie to him. He wonders who else Thomas has been… in a relationship with, he supposes is the right term. Or if he’s ever considered marrying a woman and playing a lifelong game of _pretend_. So, the next night, he asks.

 

“Have you ever considered marrying a woman, though?”

There’s the tiniest of pauses as he lights his cigarette, “Why?”

The footman realises suddenly that he’s probably the first person to actually ask him anything about himself. That one’s… not so surprising. “Just wondered,” he shrugs.

Thomas seems to consider all his options before settling on an answer, “Only the once.”

“Who with?” it’s some dangerous territory, with no guarantee that the other won’t just refuse to answer of storm off to bed. “Was she pretty?” Jimmy winces at himself because he’s sos hallow he actually asked that.

“Very pretty,” Thomas confirms, shuffling the deck over and over. Jimmy wishes he would have thought to do that; then he wouldn’t be stuck looking awkwardly at the table, “I knew her since school, well, before then, really. Her grandfather owned the undertaker’s next door.”

“Lovely,” he grimaces.

Thomas huffs out what might be a laugh, “There was no other children living near us, so we kind of stuck together and then I could never get rid of her.”

“Did you love her?” which is a stupid question because she was a _she_.

“I wasn’t _in_ love with her, but I… cared a great deal about her. She liked women, she knew what I was. It just made sense to us to act like we were courting.”

“Can’t imagine you and a woman courting,” he admits. “You just don’t seem the type.”

He shrugs, “I was a different person back then. And I was much younger, that always makes a difference.”

Jimmy doesn’t know what to say to that, so, “What happened? Did she find another woman?”

“The day after she proposed- and don’t look at me like that, Jimmy. I was going to propose to her but if you knew what she was like it’d make more sense. Wasn’t the most romantic of scenarios, anyhow, just shouted out the window, ‘Thomas! Marry me?’ Mouth like a five bob prostitute and mistaken for one several times to boot.”

Jimmy can’t help but feel jealous at the fond look that’s taken up residence in Thomas’ grey eyes and also curious. Because he genuinely is not able to imagine what sort of woman Thomas would end up with, “She sounds like a right nutter.”

“She was- think of a ginger Lady Sybil type with a Manchester accent,” he extinguishes his cigarette and lit another. “Where was I? Ah, anyway, the day after she proposed she died.”

Jimmy blinks stupidly for a moment, “Oh.” Then, “Sorry.”

Thomas shakes his head, “It was her own silly fault. Ran out in front of a cart for some reason. She was that sort of girl.”

“How old were you?”

“17, almost 18. Just before I came to Yorkshire. She would have been 17- everyone in our neighbourhood said it was ‘young love’.”

Jimmy lets out a scoff, “Love’s a load of poppycock, anyway.”

His lips twist upwards behind his smoke, “So I’ve found.”

“Was she the only one?”

“Yes, and never again will there be another potential wife.”

“Why not?” he frowns.

“Wouldn’t be fair on either of us- imagine bringing a child into a situation like that. They would grow up to hate us both and rightly so.”

Jimmy doesn’t know how to respond to that.

 

~0~

 

Black ink shouts how a poofter has hanged himself before his case could go to trial and Jimmy feels ice cold fear down his back and tries to quell the panic boiling in his guts. No one could have guessed, he tries to reassure himself, if Alfred mentions anything then he’ll be easy to discredit- no policeman would trust him after the last time. All through the day he struggles to keep his face unreadable.

 

“Did you read the paper this morning?”

Thomas’ face stays blank and Jimmy envies the ease with which he hides away from the rest of the world, “Some of it. But you want to know about the story on the front page.”

He doesn’t know how Thomas knows, but he decides it doesn’t matter, “What d’you think about him?”

The other man shrugs, leans against the wall, “His own fault. He knew the risks and he still put it all down on paper and sent it.”

“You don’t feel sorry for him, then?” because if he wasn’t so selfish, he would. Maybe.

Thomas sighs, leans his head back and closes his eyes, “Life’s a bitch, Jimmy. It’s just the way it goes, sometimes;  people make mistakes and they deal with the consequences.”

 

~0~

 

Thomas is in America and Jimmy can’t deny that he misses him. Just a bit more than slightly. Because he is absolutely in love with the man and he can’t change that, just hide it.

But right now he’s more focused on finding out where he put his bloody book. Well, it’s not really _his_ book, Thomas let him borrow it, but he wants to finish reading it. And he can’t _bloody find it!_ He opens his cupboard and (tries) to reach the top shelf to see if by some miracle it’s there, but only succeeds in bringing a dilapidated old cardboard box down on top of his head. “Brilliant,” he grumbles, prodding its fallen contents with his toe. “Thank you, world.”

It’s at that exact moment Alfred chooses to walk past his slightly open door, “What’re you doing?”

“Same as you: imitating an idiot,” the blonde retaliates, because he can just barely tolerate Alfred on a good day. The other leaves and as Jimmy bends down to pick up his things he catches sight of an old photo. Pulling it out from under the pile of old cinema tickets, he can’t help but smile at the sight of his mother in her wedding dress and his father in his best suit. A pang of sadness suddenly infects his bloodstream; they were long gone, of course. Artie Kent to a German bullet and Winnie Kent to the Spanish Flu.

Jimmy wonders if Thomas’ mother is still alive, still cooking tea for when Mr Barrow gets home from the clock shop every night and going to church or wherever on a Sunday. With a blink, Jimmy becomes aware that he knows hardly anything about Thomas Barrow the man but for the story of the pretty girl and that he came to Yorkshire when he was around 18 and that his dad was a clock maker. In a way, it reinforces Jimmy’s whole picture of the under butler: a foreign, alien being who refuses to acknowledge how dirty and disgusting his kind are despite life screaming it in his face at every opportunity.

It’s…strange.

 

~0~

 

Two days later is Jimmy’s half day, but he can’t even find it in him to moan about how he wishes it was Ivy’s half day too just to annoy Alfred. Normally, he would have been flirting with her at every turn but today he just hasn’t got it in him.

Mrs Hughes seems to notice, tells him to, “Relax a little, Jimmy. You seem as though you might be coming down with something.”

He can’t bring himself to look her in the eyes and just mumbles half-inaudible, “Yes, Mrs Hughes,” before hurrying away to get his hat and coat from his room. He’s been saving, and the money lining his pocket will get him well and truly squiffy. Maybe even drunk enough that the pain of missing Thomas and hating himself will go away. Or maybe by that point he won’t even care any more. Hopefully.

 

Later, Jimmy will tell himself it was the booze that led him to be against the pub’s back wall with his dick in some stranger’s mouth; never mind he had hardly even got two sips of his pint down before pretending he needed a piss.

It feels so good and so dirty all at once, but oh so very _exhilarating_ , and Jimmy is starting to understand why so many men would choose to condemn themselves to hell if this is one of the tamer acts two men can do together. The places where it’s skin on skin burn with a fiery heat he can’t be bothered to decide is good or bad and it doesn’t hurt that the stranger has black hair, pale skin and blue eyes that in the right light veer on the grey side. It doesn’t take very long before Jimmy is letting go into the man’s pretty red mouth in utter bliss and hoping he can’t hear him groaning ‘Thomas’ like a litant.

 

~0~

 

Jimmy can’t imagine going back into the pub so he wonders round the village, ending up in the shop and buying the same brand of cigarettes that Thomas smokes in an attempt to stop missing his friend so much.

Jimmy tells himself that it has nothing to do with feelings that are disgusting and that he shouldn’t be feeling and because in actual fact Thomas is the only friend that he has at Downton. He’s never noticed before, because during _that_ year he and Alfred were sort of together against the under butler and there was flirting to be done to prove to everyone that he was a proper man and in no which way even close to being lavender. But apart from that he really does have no one. It’s a bit of a shock but he supposes it shouldn’t be. It figures God must punish men like him for their sins somehow.

He doesn’t get letters from anybody at Lady Anstruther’s- only her Ladyship herself because he never really cared for anyone there and they never really cared for him. And all the people he met during the war…well, Jimmy may or may not have deliberately cut contact with them so that he didn’t have to think about it. But now Thomas is gone and Jimmy is realising how isolated he is. But he realises with mixed feelings that he prefers it that way as he makes his way back to Downton.  The other servants are just…well, boring, really. Alfred is an idiot, Mr Bates is a smug idiot, and Mr Molesley is also an idiot. Daisy is nice, but she is always mooning over Alfred and Ivy is clingy. Anna is one of the few people that Jimmy genuinely likes but she is almost always with Mr Bates.

Thomas is the only really interesting one at Downton and he’s Jimmy’s best friend and it only serves to make Jimmy feel that much more guiltier because he knows now that Thomas is still utterly in love with him and he’s been trying _so hard_ to hide it and act like he’s normal and it’s all for _Jimmy_ , because Jimmy’s so selfish and cowardly he can’t admit even now what sort of a man he is for fear of the disappointment that’ll be in those mysterious grey eyes. Except, the footman reflects with no small amount of bitterness, Thomas probably wouldn’t be disappointed or anything like that, but so happy that Jimmy _finally_ liked him back that he wouldn’t care about the hell that he had put him in before.

As he walks through the door, Jimmy sternly blinks back against whatever stinging wetness might be in his eyes and walks through the servants’ hall towards the stairs. No point in staying in a place he doesn’t want to be in. Miss Baxter and Anna are talking in the corner as they sew and just before he can leave and retreat to the solitude of his room he hears Miss Baxter say, “I was a friend of Mr Barrow’s sister when we were younger.” And Jimmy feels almost sick with guilt as he practically runs up the stairs.

Thomas doesn’t even hardly seem to particularly _like_ Miss Baxter and yet she still knows more about him than Jimmy.

 

~0~

 

However long later, Thomas returns from ‘modern and interesting’ America far more relaxed and calm than Jimmy has ever seen him

He’s relaxed because he met someone, the little voice in his brain whispers and he feels insanely jealous but has to remind himself that he has no right because he himself did exactly the same thing and even if he hadn't, it wasn’t as if the two of them are together in any sort of sense.

“Was there much to see in America, Mr Barrow?” he asks across the candle flame, because somehow it feels like they’re too far apart to call him ‘Thomas’.

“I didn’t get to see all that much of it but what I saw was certainly… interesting.”

There’s that word again; Jimmy is starting to think that it’s one of those words that are code for something everyone is supposed to know. He doesn’t know, “Did you meet anyone there?” At his friend’s frown he tack on, “A man…?”

Thomas glances shyly away, then, “One or two.”

“Oh,” Jimmy pushes his jealousy down with his love. Then, “Why didn’t you end up in your dad’s clock shop instead of going into service?”

The older man blinks at the sudden change of topic but answers anyway, “We didn’t get on. As soon as Dory- that’s the girl I told you about- turned 12 we went and got ourselves jobs at a city house.”

‘Dory’… Jimmy can’t imagine Thomas liking someone called _Dory_. He really must have been a different person back then, “So why did you come to York if you had a job there?”

A strange emotion passes across his friend’s face but it’s gone before Jimmy can decipher what it is, “The day after Dory’s funeral, I went back- it would have been my sister’s 21st birthday and although we were never close I could tell her things. I got there and my father told me he was moving the business to London. That was probably the only time I felt grateful towards him.”

“Why?”

“It meant that I no longer need stay in Manchester; that familial duty wouldn’t hold me back any more.”

“Alright, but, why _Yorkshire_? You could have gone anywhere.”

“It’s practically the other end of the country so I was well away from any other family members and I didn’t know anyone there and they didn’t know me. I told you- I was a different person back then, I thought of it as a whole new start.”

The cigarette smoke catches in his throat and Jimmy laughs through his splutters, “You old romantic, you!”

Thomas shakes his head in fond exasperation, “You smoke too much.”

“Talk about the pot calling the kettle black!” Jimmy teases. “You smoke much more than I do, _and_ you’re the one that started me off.”

“Some people are born to damage their lungs,” Thomas retorts, pushing his chair back and standing up. “Come on, you, it’s about time we were both in bed.”

And Jimmy utterly _longs_ to make an innuendo, to shoot back a dirty comment but he isn’t brave like Thomas. He’s the wrong sort of faggot.

 

~0~

 

The one thing Jimmy doesn’t forget to ask is when Thomas’ birthday is and as luck would have it it’s only two weeks away, and Jimmy has his half day tomorrow so he can buy him a present.

“Don’t tell the others,” the under butler warns him. “Then I’ll have to find out when their birthdays are,” Jimmy laughs but the happy feeling is thoroughly doused when he can’t decide what to but his friend. He purchases a card, naturally. Not very flashy or colourful, but it’s in that pale shade of blue that Thomas doesn’t seem to mind and it comes with a pretty envelope. But he struggles with the present; he doesn’t want too cheap but he doesn’t know what’s too expensive wither and nothing that seems to be a vaguely appropriate price really appears to be suitable for a man like Thomas.

In the end, Jimmy settles on a packet of cigarettes and hopes his friend will understand.

 

He gives Thomas the card just before breakfast and the next day when he returns the book he spots it on the corner of his desk and grins as he bums a cigarette.

Almost a fortnight afterwards, the card has been relegated to between the pages of the book Jimmy borrowed, pressed carefully as if it was a rare flower that Thomas wanted to preserve.

It suddenly comes to the footman that it might be the first cars Thomas has gotten in _years_.

No wonder he’s still in love with the under butler, Jimmy realises grimly- he can’t back off and it’s his own silly fault.

 

~0~

 

Snow melts and the flowers start to bloom and Jimmy imagines that the flowers on his mother’s grave are blooming too, reflecting all the life that was taken away from Winnie Kent in the spring of 1919. He would go to visit her grave, but he hasn’t the money for the two trains and a bus that he would need to get and the guilt of it and the shame of what she would think of him if she was still alive get too much and drive him into Thomas’ room at one in the morning, a tearful, snotty mess. Misery loves company, after all.

 

“She was always so _nice_ to me,” Jimmy sniffs. “Even when I had done something awful she never shouted at me at all. And every Sunday right up until I left home she made the best biscuits like you wouldn’t believe- even better than Mrs Patmore’s. And sometimes if me Dad were in a good mood then in the summer they would just go out in the garden and dance and not give a hoot in hell what the neighbours thought of it. But then one month after I get home and she goes and dies on me; ‘s not fair!” he breaks into a fresh wave of sobs and Thomas awkwardly presses a handkerchief into his fingers.

“Life is never fair,” Thomas murmurs, voice soft and flowing in the room like silk. Jimmy almost wants to fall asleep to it.

He decides he doesn’t want to think about his mother any longer, “What about your mother?”

“Died years ago, a few months after I turned 12. We knew it was coming, she had never been in the best of health; it was only a matter of time.”

“Did you go and put flowers down?”

“No,” and in this light he could look almost regretful but Jimmy has learnt that Thomas doesn’t often do regret.

“Weren’t you very close, then?”

“We were as a matter of fact. Extremely close, even. One of the best women there was, I think you’d have liked her. She was very much like me- stubborn and rude.”

“Now I know where you get it from,” it’s a weak joke but it makes Thomas smile which in turn makes Jimmy feel a bit better.

“Cheeky. But no, she always said that if we wasted any money on flowers she would slap us when we finally passed on too.”

“D’you ever visit her grave?”

“Only before I left Manchester, that was the only time.”

Jimmy thinks of his own mother, lying cold in her coffin and how the first month or so after her death he went to visit every half day he got despite it leaving him as broke as a pauper, “Why?”

Thomas discreetly shoots him a look and it only serves to remind the younger of what a strange creature he is, “She’s _dead_ , Jimmy- crying over a bit of rock wouldn’t bring her back.”

 

~0~

 

When it gets round to that year’s war anniversary, Jimmy is immensely glad that he’s still getting over a cold as it gives him a perfectly valid reason not to go. He can mope and mourn his father’s heroic but pointless death in peace and quiet with no one around to pester him and ask if he is alright.

Well, except for Thomas. Who, it turns out, hasn’t gone to the memorial service either and has just turned up at his door with two cups of tea and biscuits Jimmy is 90% certain he raided from Mrs Patmore’s secret stash. “So what made me more appealing than that bunch of busy-bodies?” he jokes. “My amazing hair? My sparkling personality?”

Thomas rolls his eyes, “Nothing I experienced in the war was honourable and I have no desire to listen to them bleat the same thing as they always do.”

“But weren’t you injured in the war?” Jimmy frowns, although it’s entirely possible he’s wrong because truth be told he still doesn’t know all that much about Thomas Barrow. Thomas is like enigma upon enigma wrapped up in skin and bones and Jimmy is just _him_ with a dark, disgusting secret he tries to ignore. And that’s the thing that most stumps Jimmy, because Thomas embraces the sort of man he is and chases men and he doesn’t appear to give a damn what anyone might think of him, because Thomas is one of those people who can get himself out of all sorts of trouble and knows it.

“Thomas says, “Yes,” but only after hesitating.

And it’s surprising and Jimmy can’t believe that he hasn’t asked before, “Can I see?”

The way Thomas ever so slowly puts down his teacup and starts to take off his glove despite the obvious reluctance on his face makes Jimmy wish he’d never asked. Maybe there is _one_ person who Thomas wants to think good of him.

The bullet passed clean through, ripping a torn up path through the skin, raised red tissue trailing up the bases of the second and third fingers. The footman turns his head over; the pinkie finger lies wonky and slightly apart from the rest and there’s yet another scar on the outside of it, though this time smaller but still just as painful looking. It’s not _ugly_ , just… out of place, like it belongs on the hand of someone who is not Thomas, cold and aloof under butler of Downton Abbey. What screams out to Jimmy is how painful it must have been; there have been rumours of what’s under Mr Barrow’s glove, and the footman could laugh at it all- to have given two years of service in what was the closest to hell on Earth you could get and then to come back and be viewed with either dislike or disinterest by those with no idea of what it was like. He doesn’t _say_ any of that, because he doesn’t think Thomas likes pity very much so instead he grips on tight and asks, “Does it still hurt?”

“Sometimes,” and that’s the end of that.

 

~0~

 

Jimmy can’t help it, he doesn’t mean to say, “We all settle down one day,” but he does. He does because he’s _bad_ for Thomas. He’s the wrong sort of faggot and he’s ashamed of himself like Thomas isn’t and, and… it all boils down to the fact that Thomas can do so much better.

So he sleeps with Lady Anstruther and Thomas _helps_ him, actually _helps_ him. Guilt makes Jimmy weak at the knees and he almost doesn’t go through with it, almost pulls the under butler into a kiss right then and there, almost tells him everything.

Jimmy doesn’t know why people say ‘almost’ is the scariest word, ‘could’ is much scarier.

 

~0~

 

It’s almost a relief that Lord Grantham walks in on them, because now Jimmy has to leave and Thomas has no choice but to get over him and that’s really the best thing that can happen because Thomas can do so much better.

He packs his bags, gets the two trains and a bus to his parent’s graves in the village cemetery. But there’s no work in such a small village and there’s too many memories so he takes another train and ends up in Manchester; works in a pub and saves as much as he can so he can move to London.

It takes a couple of months but eventually he’s got money for a train and rent and a possible job. Before he goes, he visits Blackley Cemetery, and finds the little plot containing the body of Mrs Barrow. Thomas may never have put flowers down, and maybe she wouldn’t appreciate Jimmy doing so either but he can’t think of any other way to say thank you for bringing her son into the world. Because Jimmy is still absolutely in love with Thomas despite wanting Thomas not to be in love with him and it’s gotten to the point where he doesn’t dare write like he said he would because he just can’t face it. And the longer he leaves it the scarier he gets.

That, Jimmy reflects, is probably the reason so many people become estranged.

 

When you’re in service, all the days blur into a monotonous grey so Jimmy has no real clue how long it’s been since he left Downton when he gets a letter from Miss Baxter asking him to get in contact with Thomas somehow. She doesn’t _say_ hardly anything but men of his sort are good at reading between the lines- have to be- and he knows something is terribly wrong. Everything goes a bit fuzzy, and he hears himself begging his boss to give him a week off; makes up a lie that his father is deathly ill and doesn’t even have the time to feel relieved when it works.

The train gets into the village too late for him to go up there straight away, so he gets a room at the pub. In the morning, after a restless night of worry, it suddenly occurs to Jimmy that maybe _Thomas_ won’t want him there, so he decides to phone first and comes away wishing he hadn't.

 

~0~

 

They’re on about moving Thomas to the hospital, because he’s been unconscious for over a day now but Jimmy says nothing, if he does he’ll start shouting about how they don’t really care for Thomas and are moving him only because it’ll be quicker to clean his room out if he dies.

He got here yesterday morning and was greeted with a silence filled with too much and too little all at once. According to Mrs Hughes, Thomas just collapsed whilst on a smoke break, and Doctor Clarkson didn’t think there was anything to do but wait for him to wake up on his own. No one at the Abbey knows anything except that the under butler hadn't looked well for a while, even Miss Baxter knows nothing for definite and she was the one who was so concerned that she found a way to contact him

Jimmy’s best friend is pale and tired and thin, simultaneously freezing cold and burning hot, to all the world like a corpse with bags under his eyes like bruises and his room has a very faint whiff of vomit to it with an absence of cigarettes and he doubts Thomas really was having a smoke because it seems like he hasn’t had one in weeks. And Jimmy really wants to scream at them all because, sure, Thomas isn’t the nicest person in the world or the kindest but he’s by no means a particularly _bad_ person and why on earth did they wait until it came down to this?! The blonde knows that had it been anyone else then they wouldn’t have stopped asking and would have _never_ let them carry on working. He wants to say that they don’t really care for Thomas and that they should never have dismissed him because, really, that’s what set it all off in the first place.

But like most of the angry rants of the world, he keeps it silent.

 

They move Thomas to the hospital and Jimmy packs him a case; even after all this time he knows _exactly_ what Thomas will want and he’s decided that someone is going to have to keep Thomas Barrow out of trouble he gets himself into and it’s going to be him.

Just as he’s looking in the button of the cupboard for anything he might have missed, he finds it. _It_ being a case he’s never seen before and he opens it, because Jimmy is the cat of curiosity. Inside are needles and syringes and a strange liquid that makes his heart go cold. And tucked away beneath all of this, like a revered holy scripture, is a magazine page saying ‘choose your own path’.

His heart rises in his throat; he’s seen this advert before, whilst he was still in Manchester, and he had wanted it to be real but dismissed the idea almost immediately- anyone with a brain could see it was a load of rubbish.

Apparently not.

Jimmy packs the case up separately, drops it off in his room at the village pub on his way to the hospital, hoping his friend hasn’t used it yet and almost crying when he rolld his sleeve up to reveal purple bruises.

 

~0~

 

the nurse is doing some ‘general tests’, which means Jimmy has been relegated to a hard wooden chair in the corridor for the past 40 minutes, sick with worry and then quite surprised when Miss Baxter turn up. “What’re you doing here?” he demands, defensive because he isn’t sure if he wants to share Thomas now he’s decided what he’s decided.

“I came to see if Mr Barrow is alright,” she answers calmly in that way of hers that used to make him and Thomas wretch, before.

“They’re doing some tests,” clipped and cold and only just not accompanied by a glare.

Miss Baxter lets out a sigh, settles into the chair next to him, “I know that I’m probably the last person he would want worrying over him, Jimmy, but I feel as though I must- in place of any real family he has.”

“He’s got me!” the blonde protests. “I’m his family.”

She lets out another sigh and closes her eyes for a second, before, “Have you ever asked _why_ he doesn’t like me, Jimmy?”

“He wouldn’t tell me.”

That gets him a smile, “No.” She muses, “I suppose he wouldn’t have.”

A silence falls between them and just as Jimmy is on the verge of deciding if it’s awkward or not, she asks: “Do you have any siblings?”

He thinks of his mother and all of the times she and his dad were elated to learn that she was pregnant again only to cry and take down all the congratulations cards a few months later and the three tiny little crosses in the corner of the garden carved with the names they would have had, “No.”

“Then you can never really hope to understand the, the _rivalry_ and the resentment that can build up between them. But, Mr Barrow’s sister, he viewed her as the favourite of his parents and, well, I suppose she was, really. Things between him and his father were always strained- they were too alike and could never get on. His father favoured his sister and when his mother died it only got worse.”

“But that still doesn’t explain why he dislikes you so much.”

“Yes, well, I’m getting to that. About a year before he left home, my own parents died and Mr Barrow’s father took me in as I was friends with his daughter. I’ve always thought that he was jealous, in a way. That I could be what he saw as practically a stranger and yet more part of the family than him.”

Jimmy blinks, Thomas can hold a grudge, that’s for certain, but to hate a woman so much over childish anger? There must be more to it than that and he tells her so.

“Mr Barrow is a complicated man,” she agrees. “There’s most likely a lot more to it than that.”

 

~0~

 

Hospitals are quiet and too heavy with silence and Jimmy would leave except Thomas is the one in the hospital bed, pale under the stark linen and looking even more like a corpse. He’s been here for almost a day and Thomas hasn’t moved but for the shallow rise and fall of his ribs; each breath promising life whilst possibly bringing death closer.

Maybe, Jimmy thinks, Thomas will fade away, just like that. Slowly and quietly whither and never wake up again until he just _stops_.

That’s actually possibly the worst thing about this, because Jimmy has always thought of Thomas as a rock. And not one that would wear away with age and rain like the drip, drip of a tap but one that would crash and shatter into a million pieces in the loudest and harshest way possible and shock anyone nearby.

To see him like this… well, Jimmy is certain Thomas would hate it. He clings to his remaining certainties with fervour because he’s still trying to recover his grasp of the world right now. He _thought_ that Thomas was never and could never be ashamed of the sort of man he was but obviously he _must_ be, to do what he’s done to himself.

He’s going to burn that damn box.

 

~0~

 

There’s the tiniest of groans from red lips; tiny and brittle and sickly but it’s like a yell in the muteness between the white-wash walls. “Thomas?” Jimmy almost falls off the edge of his seat as he tries to get closer. “Thomas, come on you’ve slept enough now.” It takes a couple of minutes but _finally_ tired lids blink open to reveal weary grey.

Jimmy feels just so _relieved,_ like the entire world has been lifted off his shoulders and he can do nothing but just grin. He’s had two hours sleep in two days and he’s absolutely shattered but _Thomas is awake_ , “Hey you.”

Thomas’ brow furrows, “What…?”

“You collapsed after breakfast, do you remember? Had everyone in a right state, you did.”

“You’re ‘ere,” the elder whispers, “you left.”

“Miss Baxter wrote, she said you were ill- of course I came.”

“You didn’t write,” like he hasn’t even heard and Jimmy feels his hope quickly dissipating. “I thought, I thought…”

“I know,” tears sting his eyes but he’s not going to let them fall, Thomas needs him. “But it’s alright, now. I…” he falters. “I saw the ‘choose your own path’ in your cupboard. You went to it, didn’t you?”

“You left,” Thomas repeats still not looking him the face. “And I was, I was so lonely and it didn’t matter that it ‘urt I just wanted to ‘ave someone.”

Jimmy _does_ let some tears slip this time, “Thomas, look at me.”

He does and follows one tear trail down a cheek then raises a shaky hand and stops the next one in its tracks, “You’re cryin’.”

“And you’re a twat. The biggest twat in the world; Christ, Thomas what did they _do_ to you?”

“There was… it was meant to _‘elp_ me, Jimmy. The electric shocks and the medicine and the therapy were goin’ to stop me being lonely.”

Oh, _God_.

Jimmy doesn’t want to dare contemplate the side-effects of any of it.

Thomas seems to have noticed his face because he shifts, moves away with a barely audible sigh that would probably sound more like a sob, “I just wanted to ‘ave someone.”

Jimmy looks at their hands on top of the covers which have somehow become curled together, then he looks up at Thomas. “You have me,” he whispers.

No, he _promises._

 

 


End file.
